


The Gift of a Year

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Apologies, Chocolate, Dating, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich
Summary: Twelve months in the odd relationship between 007 and the Quartermaster





	The Gift of a Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CMDAK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMDAK/gifts).



January

Q hates January, with its dirty slushy streets and biting wind. There is no relief even in the streets of London, the tall buildings seeming to channel the frigid air into gusts that make pedestrians hurry about their business with heads down.

Crossing to the north side of Vauxhall Bridge, Q walks briskly to a coffee shop. He is muffled in his thick parka with the hood pulled up. Under it he has an extra jumper and a scarf that seems to be growing tighter around his neck with each stride.

He is just about to push open the door when an a man’s large gloved hand flattens against the glass and swings it open for him.

“After you.”

Q recognises the voice even as the face blurs behind his steamed up lenses.

“Bond. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The agent hasn’t been visible much at Six since Skyfall some months back. He’s taken mission after mission with barely a break in between. R runs his comms. One of Mallory’s orders following the investigation.

Bond folds his umbrella and drops it into the stand by the door. By the time Q emerges from the cocoon of his outdoor wear Bond is at the counter ordering for them both.

“Salted caramel latte.”

Bond pushes the tall mug towards Q and hunches over his own Americano. Q is too polite to tell the agent that the milky coffee is too sweet and he would far rather have the hit of black caffeine that Bond cradles reverently.

“You didn’t have to,” Q starts.

“I know. Just drink my apology, Q, there’s a good Quartermaster. It’s a rare event.”

“Then... apology accepted? Not sure for what.”

They sip their coffee in silence for a while, early evening chatter buzzing around them. Q cleans his lenses on a paper napkin and when he replaces his glasses Bond is watching him intently. It’s unnerving to be the focus of those blue eyes. “Do I have froth on my nose?”

Bond places his now empty cup on the table and stands. He has barely taken off his coat and now he is wrapping up again, readying to leave.

“You really are quite intriguing,” he says, and then he is gone.

February

Q stares warily at the navy gift box placed prominently in the centre of his office desk. The date hasn’t escaped him, but only because some of the younger minions have been chattering like starlings about secret admirers and mysterious love notes.

“Ugh!”he states mildly, but his curiosity is piqued by the expensive looking item with the silver embossed writing.

The box is similar in size to his tablet but about 4 inches deep. Sturdy linen effect cardboard and a slim silver satin ribbon tied neatly. This is no cheap mail order gift. Someone has transported this with care from Bruges, if the name of the chocolatier is any indicator.

But as far as he can recall, no one he knows has been to Bruges recently...

“Ugh!” He mutters again, feeling mildly annoyed at having a secret admirer, because Q prides himself on knowing all of the secrets in his department, both big and small. “Perhaps it’s not for me,”he mutters hopefully, but on the card tucked into the corner ribbon is a single letter Q. “Bugger!”

He plucks at the ribbon feeling guilty for disturbing it’s neatly tied perfection. It falls away and he raises the hinged lid to find layers of embossed tissue paper. Impatient now, he lifts them clear and...

“Oh! Wow!”

It is a thing of beauty, perfect in every detail. To Q’s expert eye he can gauge that the dimensions are near exact, and were it not for the sweet aroma of chocolate he could almost be fooled into thinking it was real. The confection gleams like the silvery steel of the new Walther PPK that normally sits snugly in Bond’s hand.

He lifts it carefully from it’s tissue paper bed, trying not to handle it too much in case it melts before he finishes marvelling at it. Quickly he snaps a half dozen photos from every angle, just to preserve the joy, and then he spies the small envelope.

‘To replace the most recent loss, by way of apology. Sincerely, Bond.’

“arse!” Q murmurs but he is smiling.

He can’t preserve it, he knows that. Eventually the chocolate will bloom and become inedible. And there is a tiny modicum of satisfaction in destroying such a beautifully crafted weapon. A sense of justice done.

Q brings it to his lips, and flicks his tongue over the barrel. Slips it between his lips and allows his tongue to dip into the muzzle, eyes fluttering closed.

“Have I discovered a kink, Quartermaster?”

Bond leaned against the doorframe smirking and watching Q intently. Q gave him a slow blink then clamped down on the softening barrel with his teeth. Bond actually winced.

“Apology accepted. This time. Close the door on your way out Agent.”

  
March

March is the month the ghouls come out to terrorise Q and the other department heads. Pale as the minions of Q-branch, the accountants emerge, not seeking brains, but budget surplus they can reclaim and repurpose.

It turns Mallory from the cool-headed reasonable politician into the bane of Q’s entire existence as he attempts to justify the Sorry state of his budget thanks, in large part, to one James Bond.

“Is 007 going for the record for most expensive watches destroyed in the line of duty?” Mallory gripes, his finger sliding down the budget sheet Q is sick of the sight of.

“There’s a record?” He asks blandly.

“Well if there is some kind of contest, please do not make Bond aware of it.”

“Yes sir. If you’re done criticising the Bond size holes in my equipment line perhaps we can move on to my request to retain the development surplus?”

Mallory glares. “Did you not understand the concept of balance, Quartermaster?”

“You will appreciate I am working at a severe disadvantage, Sir? I was hoping to pursue an idea I had for an explosive device small enough to be concealed in a lipstick or a writing implement.”

“An exploding pen?” Mallory looked like he may choke on the sip of coffee he was about to take. “Do me a favour. Stay away from Bond’s suggestions. Dismissed.”

Q sauntered out of M’s office. Bond appeared from nowhere and fell into step beside him. “He didn’t go for it?”

“No, but it distracted him from your disastrous effect on my bottom line.” Q slipped into the lift ahead of the agent watching the doors close between them. “And don’t even think of commenting on that...”

 

April

There is an Easter Egg the size of a house situated on the workstation Q normally uses in the team room.

A slight exaggeration, perhaps, but it would feed a family of 6 for a month, or the feral minions of Q-branch for an afternoon snack. They are already gathered around it, eyes wide as children at Christmas but salivating like rabid wolves.

“What is it with you and chocolate?” Moneypenny smirks at him over the rim of her takeaway coffee. “Did you tell him it was your favourite thing?”

Q racks his brains but cannot recall a conversation with Bond that ever involved Q’s affection for chocolate, but these extravagant confections turn up on his desk on a semi-regular basis. Usually with a note apologising for something.

“I wish he’d stop. People are beginning to talk.”

There are two spots of colour high on Q’s cheekbones and his lips are pressed into a thin exasperated line.

“Oh you love it,” Moneypenny teases, spotting the blush. “I think he’s trying to impress you.”

“By offering an even more unhealthy diet to trigger more of the spots he finds so endearing?” Q’s skin, annoyingly, does tend to forget he is no longer a teenager. “I doubt it.”

“Well he doesn’t buy anyone else such pretty things, even when he has a lot to apologise for. Tanner didn’t get so much as a Mars Bar when Bond trashed his car last week.”

“You get gifts regularly,” Q accuses.

“Only so he can keep up appearances.”

“Appearances?”

“Oh Q... really? Your gaydar needs tuning, sweetheart.”

Moneypenny walks away and most of the eyes are lured away from the egg to her arse, at least momentarily. Q stares after her with a question half formed on his lips.

 

May & June

Bond has a lot to apologise for over the next two months, and the gifts appear at regular intervals. Their extravagance appears to be related to the size of disaster the agent has created as He zig-zags across Europe, North Africa and South America, but each one puzzles Q immensely.

An invitation to coffee at an exclusive, hard to access, coffee ‘boutique’. A pair of tickets for the ballet - Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, one of Q’s favourites. Dinner for two at Duck & Waffle. A VIP invitation to an intriguing digital art exhibition that Q had been desperate to view.

Each gift feels like it should be a date. A date Bond has no possibility of attending because he is thousands of miles away.

“It really is quite ridiculous” Q complains to Moneypenny as they are led to their table. “He picks the most impressive places but leaves me to drag along a substitute just so I don’t look like an epic loser!”

“Thanks very much,” Moneypenny responds sarcastically, and orders a bottle of Dom Perignon on Bond’s open tab.

“You know what I mean...” Q waves an exasperated hand between them. “I adore you, Moneypenny, but our relationship is based on a... I mean, what even is this?”

“What does he say about it?” She spears the black cherry in her cocktail and sucks it daintily.

“That he wants to get to know me. What I enjoy, what enthuses me, so I can speak of our dates in detail on long lonely nights.”

“Oh my god, he’s wooing you by proxy! How utterly Shakespearean!”

“Cow! That can’t be right.” But with an odd nervous fluttering in his stomach, Q realises that is exactly what this is. Q is dating James Bond’s appointed stand-in and she is looking extremely smug about it.

“At least you know when I ask you up for coffee that’s what you’ll be getting. Sorry,” she chuckles.

 

July

Bond sauntered into Q-branch in late July with no apology whatsoever. He had refused to be drawn on the ‘Not-dates’ in their late night chats, but had insisted Q go into detail about each and every one. Q was, by this time, pissy and ready to demand just what the agent was playing at.

And he would have.

But.

Bond swaggered into Q’s office, hair still damp from his post medical workout shower, tanned, stubbled, and in the best physical shape Q had ever seen. Joggers strained over his muscular thighs and the fresh blue MI6 issue exercise top was like a second skin, hugging his rippling abs.

Q sat down abruptly and wheeled his chair close to the desk to hide his sudden and obvious reaction.

“Did you want something 007?” He snapped, aware that his cheeks were flushed pink. Apparently a small amount of blood had gone north to embarrass him while the rest rushed south to mortify him.

Bond appraised his Quartermaster before answering. He still looked barely old enough to shave but Bond could no longer deny the attraction. He wanted to take the man apart, inch by delicious inch.

Thanks to Moneypenny’s efforts - she deserved a diamond at least - Bond felt he knew enough about the Quartermaster to do something he had rarely in his life considered.

“Yes. I want to convince you - eventually -to grow old with me.”

 

August

First dates always made Q nervous, but at least first dates with strangers meant Q could reassure himself if it all went terribly he need never see the man again. He felt he already knew Bond far more intimately than he should for such an occasion.

This time Bond had consulted Q about the venue for their date and Q had selected the ballet again. A contemporary all-male production of Cinderella that Bond had at first dismissed as too modern but Q’s eyes had lit up when he talked of the Principal dancer’s previous starring role.

They had agreed to meet in the theatre VIP bar where Bond had reserved a table. He was already there when Q was led to the table, and rose to greet him. He clasped Q’s shoulder and leaned in to press his lips briefly to Q’s cheek.

“Finally,” Bond smiled. “Sit. Champagne?”

“I’m not late,” Q frowned, thrown by the tender greeting.

“Not at all. I have waited far longer than I intended to spend this time with you. Months.”

“Well I was right there. All you needed to do was ask.”

“And be turned down? My fragile ego couldn’t cope with the rejection.” Bond smirked.

“What made you think I would say no?” He probably would have, Q realised, if only because of Bond’s...

“Reputation. And the fact you’re always cross with me whenever we meet.”

“You’ve usually caused me some kind of headache” Q smirked, starting to relax. “Or destroyed something in minutes that it took weeks to create.”

“I’m turning over a new leaf. You’ll see.”

The ten minute bell rings as Bond empties the last of the fizz into their glasses. As they move to the auditorium Bond’s hand rests lightly in the small of Q’s back, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

Whatever Bond’s long term aim he seems in no hurry to press Q into committing to the same goal. When he delivers Q home after the performance Bond sees him right to the door and says goodnight with a teasing light kiss on the lips that promises so much more. Q doesn’t invite him in and Bond gives no indication he expects the invitation, driving away into the night with a casual wave.

  
September 

“Promising to take better care of your equipment does not extend to almost getting yourself killed trying to retrieve a lost bloody pen drive!”

The minion who had been about to interrupt the Quartermaster in his office did a quick about turn and decided nothing short of the end of the world was worth stepping into the middle of whatever was exploding behind door number one.

“It wasn’t lost,” Bond grinned. “I knew exactly where it was. Retrieving it was a rather unpleasant business but there it is, safe and sound.”

Q grimaced at the plastic wrapped package Bond had dumped on his desk. There did appear to be a pen drive in amongst the sticky looking debris. He poked at the squishy pile with the blunt end of a pencil, careful not to rupture the plastic, until he could confirm it.

“It’s our eight week anniversary. And as per your instructions I have not sent a single gift in that time, so...” he gestured at the package.

“So... you brought me cat shit! How very thoughtful.”

“Tiger shit,” Bond corrected. “Do you have any idea how long I had to stare at that tiger’s arse to bring you this gift love?”

“Do you have any idea how much longer you’re going to have stare longingly at mine after this insanity?” Q snarked.

“There’s no pleasing some people. Happy anniversary, Q.”

 October

“Trick Or Treat?”

Bond leaned against his door frame and folded his arms, looking the sight before him up and down. It was unexpected and very pleasing.

“Hurry up and decide,” Q scowled, hugging himself self-consciously. “It’s fucking freezing in this.”

“That May be because there’s not much of you in it at all!”

Bond stepped aside and Q stalked past him trying not to curl in on himself with embarrassment. The costume had been Moneypenny’s idea and while it had seemed fun and sexy after a few drinks, now he just felt like an idiot.

“If I’d known we were playing dress up I would have made an effort.” Bond followed him, eyeing the sway of Q’s arse in the tight trousers and the knobby column of his spine and sharp shoulder blades of his naked back.

When Q paused, not really sure which room to head for, Bond crowded against his back, sliding his large hand across Q’s stomach. The waistcoat finished an inch shy of the waist of the trousers and Bond teased at that bare strip of chilled skin with a forefinger that felt like it burned.

“What kind of tricks can you do?” Bond whispered against Q’s neck, “Aside from the effect you have on me. You make it a hard challenge to resist you.”

Q chuckled which sent a ripple through the lean muscles of his back, down to his arse. Bond groaned and pressed his growing erection hard against Q’s buttock.

“Maybe I’m tired of being resisted.” Q gasped when Bond’s little finger slid beneath the waist of his trousers and his thumb widened the gap. “Maybe I want to show you just how much of a treat I can be?”

Q turned in Bond’s arms and slid down Bond’s body until he was on his knees looking up at the agent.

“So? Trick or treat?”

November 

“You didn’t really mean it when you said you wanted to grow old with me, did you?”

Bond swallowed making Q squeak and wriggle. He glared atBond Who was doing his best to look incredulous while having Q’s dick in his mouth. He pulled off with an obscene slurp.

“You want that conversation now? Or would you like a happy ending before we get into building a life together?”

“Sorry... I just... growing old, I mean, it’s not guaranteed is it? Particularly with your attitude.”

Bond sighed and propped himself on his elbows lightly resting his chin on Q’s lower belly next to his cock that was still looking deliciously perky in spite of its distracted owner.

“Nothing in life is guaranteed, Q. We’re all going to end at some point. But, for the record, if I’m lucky enough to grow old then yes, i would actually want you to be there with me.”

“You’re insane. Nothing about this courtship is normal.” Q’s brow was furrowed with thought.

“Q, did anyone ever tell you you do too much thinking and not enough living?”

Q shrugged “I have a restless mind.”

Realising he wasn’t going to get back to the business of pleasuring his lover until Q had a satisfactory answer to his question, Bond gave the matter some brief thought.

“You’re younger than me. Fitter. When I’m a cantankerous old bastard in a bathchair you will still be able to push me around and wipe my arse. These are important things to consider in a life partner.”

The pillow landed heavily on Bond’s head. “You make life with you sound so appealing.”

“Oh just wait until I take my false teeth out to blow you. You’ll realise what a prize I am.” Bond smirked and bit lightly on Q’s hipbone. “Speaking of...”

December

There is holly on Q’s mantelpiece and a silver painted twig in a pot festooned with silver and crystal decorations. Tasteful and expensive. On the hearth a pile of perfectly wrapped gifts is separated into ‘his’ and ‘his’.

Q instructs Alexa to play some Nat King Cole while he gently warms a bottle of red with mulling spices. He lays out a tray with home made mince pies - courtesy of R, the branch’s baking queen - a small cheeseboard and savoury crackers, which he carries into his small living room and places on the sofa next to him.

Looking around the room he decides the lights need to be dimmed and candle light would add a comforting flicker. Ugh, when did he turn into a romantic?

Pouring the mulled wine into a glass pitcher with orange slices and an extra cinnamon stick or two, Q carries that into the living room too and tops up his favourite mug.

His laptop pings an alert and Q leans forward to accept the call. Bond grins back at him, bare chested, cradling a Scotch.

“Oh very nice,” he chuckles. “The candles make it very... homely.”

“Are you laughing at me?” Q curls up on the sofa and nudges the laptop with his toe so he can see Bond and Bond can see him.

“Not at all. There is something very wrong with Jingle Bells in 38 degree heat.”

“Yes, it must be terrible, all that sun, sand and sea...”. Q bites into a mince pie crossly.

Bond is not supposed to be on mission. He is supposed to be here sharing Christmas with Q. Just for once Q wanted to be the one handing out gifts, and he can’t bear to think his attempt at creating a festive atmosphere is being mocked.

“Q love...” Bond’s voice has turned soft. “It’s wonderful. I’m genuinely sorry to miss this day with you.”

Q pouts but perks up when Bond says “Open a gift please. We can share that at least.”

He selects one from the top of the pile - from Moneypenny - and tears into the paper.

“A teapot! Oh hang on, something inside it... a tea subscription.”

Bond grins. “Perfect! Open the smallest one from me next.”

Q finds it - a small box about 3 inches square. “A cat tea strainer!”

“Well we do know the way to your human side is tea. Open one for me now.”

“Actually, I slipped something into your bag, underneath the base. Open that one please.”

“Intriguing.” Bond disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned holding the slim envelope Q had concealed in his luggage. “What is it?”

“It’s an envelope. You generally open them to find out.”

Eyes locked together over 3000 miles, Bond slid his finger under the flap and drew out the card. Q licked his lips nervously.

Bond stared at the card for a horribly long time before letting out a guffaw of laughter. He held up the cartoon depicting Bond as a pensioner and an older Q, racing down the street on a modified and armed mobility scooter.

“Is this a ‘yes’?”

“Yes. It’s a yes.”

 


End file.
